


The Deep Cover Operative and the Agent Provocateur

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Espionage, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Fun, Gen, Mischief, Spies & Secret Agents, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:11:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am going to go lightly on this summary. The story is fluff, it's faintly meta, and it's playing with an idea I have had for a while regarding Sherlock and Lestrade and that catastrophic announcement at John and Sherlock's Christmas party. </p><p>Sherlock is a brat, you know. He's a mega-brat. And he knows far more about Lestrade's life and business than the rest of their associates do. Which makes poor Lestrade such an easy target. XD</p><p>Takes place a week after the Christmas party, at Lestrade's favorite pub, about three drinks into the evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deep Cover Operative and the Agent Provocateur

It was a week after Christmas, and Lestrade was still fuming from Sherlock’s tactless revelation—and here, in his favorite pub, after a couple of pints, he had no qualms about venting his annoyance.

“Sherlock, did you have to pop It out like that in public?”

Sherlock smirked into his scotch. “Embarrassed? No need—many men are cuckolds. Why should you be different?”

“Because after weeks spent telling Molly about how things were fucked between me and the missus I’d just told her we were getting back together? Now I'm going to have to spend more weeks filling her in on the aftermath...all the details. Makes me look a total prat.”

“And?” The brat from hell was laughing and not even bothering to hide it. “It’s not like it’s professional to be telling her about your personal problems in the first place, after all. Unless you were hoping she’d have pity on you and soothe your troubled brow?”

Lestrade glared bitterly at Sherlock and hunched over his pint. “Not much chance of that, now, is there? It’s one thing to be having a bit of a bad time with th’ missus. A girl can feel sorry for you without worrying it’s got to go more than a cup of coffee or, maybe, if she's really sorry for you, a friendly shag or two and a gentle ‘there-there.’ Girls think different about a man whose wife’s actually up and fucked the PE teacher.”

“Indeed? I wouldn’t know.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed and he turned to study his maddening compatriot. “No,” he said, halfway between a challenge and an observation. “No, you wouldn’t know, would you?”

Sherlock raised his scotch in a heavily ironic toast. “Married to my work,” he said. “I note, for future conversations of this sort, that my work cannot possibly be reported to have run around on me, nor to care if I run around on it.”

Lestrade’s eyes narrowed further. “Yeah, nor could my wife until you got involved.”

“Don’t look at me,” Sherlock said, all feigned innocence and disingenuousness. “I’m hardly to blame that your wife’s the way she is. She’s your responsibility. You picked her, after all.”

“Not much I didn’t,” Lestrade grumbled. “And even if I had, she wasn’t like this before you started poking your nose in.”

“Perhaps I’m just more observant?” Sherlock was having more fun than a kitten in twine.

“In your dreams, sunshine.”

“Molly might disagree.”

“Molly’s gone on you, poor thing. She’ll believe it if you say it—as you well knew when you opened your mouth the other night.”

“Oh, come now. The detail adds verisimilitude to an otherwise unconvincing narrative. Your wife didn’t even provoke curiosity before I leaked a few vital extra facts.”

“Yeah, and I liked her that way. She was pleasant, easy to live with, not problem to me. Then you got involved. I just loved the time you let loose about the miscarriage. I was fielding condolences for a month.”

“Don’t pout, Lestrade. Leave that to the expert.”

“Sod off, Sherlock,” Lestrade snapped. “You’ve left me a real mess, you know. The miscarriage was bad enough, but no one expected it to go any further. And the time you announced we’d been fighting all night? I even laughed at that—Sally was fit to be tied and insisted I go home and get some sleep. But this? This has consequences, though.”

Sherlock finished his scotch and stood, straightening and dropping his foot from the brass rail beside the bar. He fished in his coat pocket for his scarf. “None of any great moment. Nothing you can’t deal with, in any case.”

Lestrade’s temper was percolating like coffee at a boil. “Right. Easy for you to say. Now I’m going to have to divorce the bitch.”

Sherlock actually laughed, then, and clapped Lestrade on the shoulder. “I think your skills are up to it. And just think—not everyone can get a divorce for no more expense than a night outlining the progression of events, and a year of carefully planted comments culminating in the announcement of signing the final papers. If you play this right you may even manage to take a vacation in the Greek islands to ease your aching soul.”

Lestrade tried to glower again, and failed. He sighed, and said only, “Yeah—and if I do use it as an excuse to go tanning, no doubt you’ll fine _some_ way to screw it up for me. Probably tell Mycroft to pull me back and put me in the field for one of you ginned up cases.”

“Would I do that?”

“In a heart beat.”

“True-dat,” Sherlock said—and winked, before sauntering out to leave his fellow spy to start planning out his impending divorce from his entirely fictitious wife.

 

NOTE: Sherlock enjoys the occasional break into casual slang so much. He loved calling Mycroft “blud,” and exiting with “laters!” I decided a similar “true-dat” was well within his linguistic mischievousness. 


End file.
